


Eraser

by emocsibe



Category: Bad Dream: Coma
Genre: M/M, Neutral Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11829966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocsibe/pseuds/emocsibe
Summary: The Dreamer has a chance to go home, which, strangely, doesn't seem like the best choice to make.





	Eraser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SheenaWilde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheenaWilde/gifts).



The Dreamer hated the atmosphere of this new universe he was tossed into by some unknown, unseen force that wanted to fuck with his already miserable life and hated that his voice was lost somewhere along the way. He hated how he looked into a mirror and saw himself, yet it somehow differed from what he remembered from before – a few minute details were off, a few lines, a few emotions and a lot of himself were misplaced. He touched his face with a quiet sigh and after closing his eyes, he tried to picture himself as he usually was, maybe to calm himself, maybe to let his anger grow and make him finally cry, he didn’t know for certain. He knew, however, that his own face and its look bothered him little compared to something else, which only may or may not have been silly. He wanted to see the Masked Man’s face, he wanted to take his hand in his and pull him close, pull him into a hug and ask him to tell him lies, lies about everything being fine, everything being normal. He wanted comfort, and he wanted him, wanted a friend, maybe even more than that. He was lost, felt lost, and it made him feel as if his chest was empty. Who knows, maybe this transfer rid him of more than just his voice, maybe there was a huge empty space between his ribs, too, it sure felt like it. He clutched at his shirt and washed his face, washed his hands, washed the floor with the water that sloshed out of his shaking palms, and then he was off to look for Death one more day in this strange world.

The misery he was surrounded by made him wish for Death to come back as soon as possible, to take him, to make it end one way or another – although he couldn’t wish for it without a small sharp pain in his chest; what would happen to the Masked Man, to the Nurse, the Cook? What would happen to the patients waiting for the final journey, waiting in conditions that were normally lethal? Would they hate him for getting what they couldn’t, or would they be happy for at least one that got out of this hell? He didn’t know, but he knew that he would be most interested in the Masked Man’s opinion, his thoughts on how he should proceed and what he should do if Death returns or is she gives them an alternative opportunity. An eraser sounded nice, but to get it… He had a plan, although he did not know if it would backfire or succeed. Well, how could someone who was alive and with no past emergencies know what it was like to make deals with Death herself? He was afraid, and again, so lost, as he treaded through the forest, looking for anything that might have been useful in any unusual, unreal way.

There was the house, full of old and painful memories, pictures of a family that could have been happy, had Death not interfered, and the pictures of a lone boy with the intention of hurting Death – the only being that had always been hurt and that would be hurt as long as she has her work to do. Knowing this, he felt he could understand. Pain would come if one died, but apparently pain would be a constant company if there was no dying, too, and this latter seemed like the bigger problem. The Dreamer believed that life should not be eternal, for no human is designed to survive eternity, and with a new devotion to stop this madness, he entered the last room, the boy’s, seeing the remains of desperate attempts to build traps and set guardians to keep Death away. He removed everything he thought he needed and exited the house – or at least tried to. Death was there, in all her dark glory, ordering him out, away – with no avail. He went back and he found the room that was the last nail in Death’s coffin, so to speak, and there, they talked. She talked, to be correct, and he listened and cried. There would only be a few who get Death’s mercy, there would be only a few to escape this world, and his thoughts jumped to the Masked Man. The man had put so much effort into keeping the others safe, into finding Death, a cure to immortality, he deserved to go. He deserved to get a neat ending, a painless, quick escape from this place, but the Dreamer knew that the Masked Man would never allow him to help him find peace until there was only one who he cared for, and this left the Dreamer with only one option. He hated it. He despaired it happening, but that empty space in his chest grew warm with life and love when he was thinking about doing something nice for the Masked Man. He clutched the eraser close to his chest and thanked Death, smiled at her with all the gratitude he felt, and hoped that she felt it, too. She disappeared and the Dreamer went back to the hospital.

He had been right, he thought bitterly, as the Masked Man wouldn’t let him use the eraser on him until the others were still there. He went around the hospital that became his home – despite all the scary noises and weird things that went on there – and erased everyone, except for the Cook who ran away. He knew that she wanted to leave, but he knew that she feared it. She was, after all, intact, not suffering from any of the extremities the others had. He went out to the street and offered an encouraging hand, patting her on the shoulder and holding the eraser closer and closer, until she reached out and pulled it to her skin. She thanked him, and with her being gone, the Dreamer walked back to where he knew the Masked Man would be waiting.

When he got there, the man was half turned towards the city in the distance, leaning on his elbows on the remains of the wall. He looked at peace and he looked beautiful. His hair moved a bit when a gush of air passed them, carrying the stench of the undead world, but the Dreamer didn’t care. The Masked Man turned, faced him, and made an offer that made the Dreamer’s whole being shudder. He was ready to offer him an easy way out, maybe ridding him of the opportunity to follow after the Dreamer, and he couldn’t have that. He looked at the bench where he was supposed to put the eraser, then at the man. The decision was not hard to make, and he was sure he would never regret it, but it still made him sad. He hated being alone, and maybe, just maybe, he was just condemning himself for an eternity of solitude. He stepped closer and tugged on the Masked Man’s sleeve with his free hand, letting his fingers trace his hand, caressing it gently, sadly. He reached upwards then, and slowly he pressed his lips against the mask, once, twice and then again, while his other hand moved the easer, and the Masked Man disappeared with a quiet thanks, a quiet promise. He was gone, and the Dreamer sat down on the cold concrete, trying to find out how to go away from here. He checked the rooms, all the rooms, then it dawned on him that the Nurse’s room was open now, and he had never been there before. Maybe it would be it, it would be the exit. He almost jumped in joy when he first saw the mirror, and in it, his own face. He had grown to understand how this world was functioning, but he still was anxious as he reached up and erased the image in the mirror.

 

The next thing he knew was that it was raining. It was raining outside of his window, and he was in his own flat, in his own skin, in his own world, and everything seemed normal. Although that small ache in his chest remained, and he thought of a warm mask against his lips and a warm hand holding his waist, and of a whispered “I’ll find you”. He didn’t believe in the supernatural, but that promise, that couldn’t have been a dream. He hoped and he looked. He imagined the mask on every face after that day, to no avail. Then, once, years after the dream, years after labelling it as a silly nightmare with a nice guy in it, he was at the store, going around and collecting his things. He didn’t look at the people, he was in a rush and wanted to get home and finish the book he was reading, then, out of the blue he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, into the eyes of an attractive man with hair that looked familiar, with a voice that sounded like a dream. He held up an eraser, smiled at him and tugged at his sleeve, saying in a broken tone:  “I’ve found you”.

The Dreamer didn’t believe in the supernatural, but he did believe that the arms that held him close that night were the arms of the Masked Man, his lips had once whispered a promise that was kept, and he believed that his heart in his chest warmed just like it had in that strange dream whenever he looked at the man he loved. It was weird, it was fitting for the dream they had met in, but he was glad that it was true – and being true was good enough for him in reality as well as in dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Since there is no fandom on Archive for Bad Dream: Coma, it is high time to start it, since the game is amazing and poor Dreamer needs some happiness after all the shit he had to witness.


End file.
